


we can just kiss like real people do

by cordsycords



Category: L.A. By Night (Web Series)
Genre: All the synonyms, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Magic, But If Something Bad Does Happen, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Im Not In Denial, Kissing, Nothing Terrible Is Happening Tonight, Smut, Snogging, Then Have Some Cuties In Love, Tiny bit of Angst, Unbetaed and Barely Edited I Had A Deadline People, kissing and Kissing if you get my drift, nope - Freeform, nothing - Freeform, they're vampires after all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 06:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19785223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordsycords/pseuds/cordsycords
Summary: Honey just put your sweet lips on my lipsWe should just kiss like real people doEva and Jasper grow closer.Their relationship progressing through a series of kissing prompts





	we can just kiss like real people do

**Author's Note:**

> So... yeah. If any of you saw my post recently, you'll know I'm pretty dismal about tonight. I don't really see a way for Jasper to survive this, and I've been freakishly writing this story over the past two weeks to make myself happy. I wanted to have it out this time last week, but I didn't, so I was super happy that I got more time before the Big Night.
> 
> Anyways. Nothing is wrong. Everything is happy. Jasper and Eva are cute and soft and in love and nothing bad will ever happen to them.
> 
> Edit 05/04/2020: This fic now has cover art by the lovely PuzzleDragon. Go check them out on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuzzleDragon) and [Tumblr](https://puzzle-dragon.tumblr.com).

[](https://puzzle-dragon.tumblr.com/post/617146184343158784/the-cordsycords-collection-we-can-just-kiss-like)

| Hesitant |

If he was human, his heart would beat against his chest. Not just beat, pound. Hammer inside of his ribcage like the drum of the tympany, rattle his bones like a crashing cymbal. He was an orchestra of nerves, as a human. He didn’t mind, then. His reactions had made everything feel real. It meant that what he was feeling was genuine if he was so afraid to lose it by some ill-conceived fuckup.

He can’t be sure, now, about what he’s feeling. His mind is telling him that it’s the same, but there is no drumming beat to follow, no sweating palms, no quivering breath. There is another voice, of course, deep inside him, that tells him, when she touches his face, to grab her and just take her then and there. He doesn’t listen. He keeps that voice silent.

Her fingers are the prick of a needle against his cheek. They are deathly cold, each one leaving patches of his skin numb in their wake. He watches her as she looks at him, fingers trailing the veins of his cheek and eyes following their path. She is fascinated with him, he believes, though how far that fascination goes he does not understand. She confuses him to no end. She is a question he will never answer and it kills him to admit it.

And he is utterly and singularly entranced.

If she was human, she would blush, he thinks, a pretty pink to grace the pale china of her cheeks. She would bite her lips, perhaps, worry the flesh between her teeth as he stared on, hypnotized until he took it upon himself to bring their lips together. He can picture her gasp, he remembers another’s from so long ago, he can hear her sigh in his mind. His fingers twitch to touch her as his hunger aches for blood.

There is still a part of him so unsure, though. He is aware of her precautions, very aware of them. Touching her can have consequences, he learned, so he must stay still, he tells himself, he must stay still for her.

Her palm rests fully against his cheek, cold and soft as steel. Her eyes finally meet his and he could collapse under her gaze, but he closes his eyes instead. He can still feel her, can still sense her presence, but he can not look. Looking would make it all too real, and he still half believes her to be a fairytale. Her thumb rubs along his skin, back and forth, just grazing the corner of his lips. A smile threatens to pass through his stoic persona and he knows it is because of her.

That must mean something. That must make it real.

He pushes himself closer to her and he feels her stiffen for a moment before receiving him. He doesn’t go any further, waiting for her to close the space between them, however small it may be. He feels her grow nearer, leaning her face to his and pointing her toes to make the height difference. She is right there, he knows, not even an inch away. He could make it the rest of the way, but he doesn’t. It’s still up to her.

The first touch of her lips against his sends a spark across his skin, alighting each nerve ending with a cold wave of bliss. He almost pulls back, but she surges forward, hard and destructive against him, like a hurricane hitting the mainland. He is still too astonished to respond immediately, but he soon opens up to her, opening his mouth to bring her top lip in between his, sucking on it until she slowly pulls away, their lips grazing once again. She sighs, a deep dark thing at the back of her throat.

She takes and he gives until they get to the point where they’d be gasping for breath and his knees would be beginning to shake. But they don’t. When she pulls away for the last time he finally reopens his eyes. 

Her oversized canine worries at her lip, biting at the hint of a smile he can see there. She’s not blushing, but he can imagine it so, “Jasper I-”

“I know,” He doesn’t know what she was going to say, but he still _knows_. His hands go out to take hers, where they are folded at her stomach, but he pauses in midair, “May I?”

She smiles, looking down at her hands, covered with gloves of delicate white lace. Without explanation, she inches them off her fingers, letting them drop to the floor, looking back up to him when finished.

He grabs her hands without hesitation, bringing her closer to him so that they're pressed up against one another. He walks backwards until the back of his knees reaches the edge of his couch and he collapses to the old worn-in cushions. She still has his hand, steadying herself with it as a dancer would with her partner's. She kneels down next to him, turned sideways on the couch. Their hands fall down to rest on her lap, and her head falls to the back cushion.

Her braids are coming undone, he notices little flyaways threatening to break free. He wants them loose, to card his fingers through her hair and feel the strands beneath his fingers. He wants to feel her body against his, to touch her skin and fall into her cold embrace. 

He surges forward, his hand going to her neck, his lips hard against hers. She moans and a growl forms at the back of his throat in response. He can feel her smile against his as his hand trails from his neck down her shoulder and arm.

There's no need to part for a long while, for neither of them needs to breathe. They are connected by their lips and hands, growing ever bolder as they fall into their passions. Their tongues invade each other's mouths, searching and inquisitive but ever mindful of their sharper teeth. His hand goes from her arm to her waist, fingers digging into the soft fabric of her sweater.

She gasps, pulling back for a second, and he is unsure of how to respond. Should he follow her? Was the touch unwelcome? He pauses, every muscle clenched, waiting for her move. She surprises him, a pattern recently, by throwing one of her legs over his lap, straddling and kneeling above him. She takes his face in her hands, forcing him to look up at her. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown so that they are nearly all black, the crown of flowers woven into her hair fallen askew.

She hungers for him and it shows. Once more her lips are on his, and he can't move away, not that he would like to, the grasp she has on his face strong and steady. She devours him, sucking on his lips and tongue, teeth grazing at the skin, tempting a bite but not breaking through. He follows suit, and his hands gather her closer, forcing her chest to rest against his. They travel across her body, down her thighs and behind, up her waist and stomach and arms, to her hair where they play and twirl until her braids are all but gone and strands of her hair fall to frame their faces.

His finger hooks at the hem of her sweater, dragging it upwards along her back to reveal a patch of skin. She all of a sudden shivers within his arms, pulling back for just a moment. A growl rips through the back of his throat as instinct tells him to follow her, echoing through the all-too-quiet room.

They both freeze.

He stops himself from going any further, painstakingly removes his hands from her body and spreads them beside himself on the cushions. His head falls back to lean against the back of the couch.

"'M sorry," he mumbles.

"It's fine," she replies.

"I didn't m- I don't wa- it's been a while," he settles on.

"I know."

"I just-" she silences him by pressing a kiss his cheek.

"We're fine, Jasper. Everything is wonderful," she says, burrowing herself into his neck.

"Yeah?"

He feels her smile against his skin, "Yes."

| Breathtaking |

He’s jittery. It’s barely an hour before dawn, and he’s returned from business with the coterie, Annabelle as excruciating as always. He’s continued to be mum with her, leaving little crumbs for her to pick apart without giving out any actual information. But she’s annoyingly perceptive about these things, sending him off with a wiggle of her eyebrow and a salacious wink.

He’d told the others he needed to get an errand done before the end of the night, Victor and Nelli hadn’t cared enough to intrude, Annabelle read perhaps a bit too much into it. She was right, of course, but it was annoying.

Eva had texted him halfway through the night, a simple _Can I come over?_ Followed by several white boxes that were no doubt emoticons that his phone couldn’t display. He spent an hour figuring out how to respond, then another twenty minutes mulling over how he was going to get away early. He tended to overthink things, her especially.

He finds himself curled on his couch, waiting for her, resting his outstretched arms on his knees as he slowly scratches his nails up and down his arm. His gaze is focused on the nondescript walls of his underground haven. The first time she came over had been new, he had no idea what was going to happen, but now he has a sample set of one, which somehow unnerves him even more. Does she expect it to happen again, is he a jerk if _he_ does? He’s already done this once before, but it’s been years, and somehow he’s forgotten everything since then and--

The knock on the door shakes him out of his thoughts. Like a puppet on a string, he is pulled to the door, half-stumbling over his feet as he reaches it. Shaking fingers open the puzzling locks, and he opens the door to reveal an empty doorstep, the full moon shining down from above. He’s on edge for a moment, until he is hit by a form smaller than him, invisible to the eye. He barely has time to say her name before her lips are on his.

So she _did_ expect something.

Her fingers go up to push his hood off his head, and his sweater follows it down to the floor until he’s left in just a black t-shirt, one that he clearly needs to throw out based on how many holes have formed at the bottom hem. Her hands trail down his arms, nails scratching gently down, and he suppresses a shiver as they move to either side of his abdomen, up and down as the fabric gathers in her hands.

He’s emboldened by her actions, thrusting his tongue into her mouth to taste her. She’s playful, pushing back at him even as he looms over her, bending her back as she leans up to meet him. They taste each other, nip and suck at the other's lips to the point that they would bruise if they were still alive, and for every breathy moan that escapes her composure, he matches it with a low groan from the back of his throat.

But it’s her hands that drive him crazy, teasing up and down without touching any skin, and he realizes how much he wants her to touch him. He’s missed it, he knows, but perhaps more than he thought before. He’s used to standing at least five feet away, flinching from any brush of contact with another being, terrified of being discovered by people still lucky to be alive. She looks at him without revulsion, and she touches him with desire. He would beg for it if he wanted to stop kissing, but he doesn’t want to do that either.

So he all but growls, pushing his tongue further into her mouth, digging his fingers into her back until she gets the message.

Her hands are cold against his spine, and he has to stop everything as he feels her fingers trail up and down, tapping at each bone as they make their way to the top of his jeans. One teasing finger dips below and she smiles against his lips. She knows that she has him wrapped around her finger, she pushes against his comfort zone and relishes every reaction she can pull from him.

He pecks her lips one last time before he pushes back.

His hands at her back jump down to her thighs, and with superhuman strength he lifts her off the ground, encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist. She does so with a hint of a squeal, her hands going to steady herself on his shoulders as he gently pins her against the wall. Looking up at her, her eyes are closed, her mouth still agape in quiet surprise. He leans in close to her ear, “I see you’ve been practicing.”

She chuckles, turning her head to look at him.

“So’ve I.”

Her hand goes to the back of his head, crushing his lips to hers once more.

| Early Evening |

There are only two different states of being in the unlife of a corpse: animate in the dark shadows of night and inanimate in the blinding fire of the day. There is no gentle meandering into wakefulness after a long day’s rest, most days he jolts back into existence, whatever fantastical force that controls his body forcing consciousness into it like helium inflating a too-small balloon.

He awakes with a jolt, like always, body almost jumping up in the bed. His muscles twitch and spasm until they finally reacquaint themselves with being used once more so long past their due date. It takes another second to remember that he’s not alone.

Eva, he believes, has been up for a while now. She had told him once that she was able to occasionally wake up as the sun would set, perhaps even glance a bit of the burning rays of light coming through a window. He opens his eyes to see her body outstretched upon his, their legs entwined, her head against his silent chest. Her fingers play with the collar of his t-shirt, and he can hear her mindlessly humming a soft tune.

“Hi,” he says, his voice rough like gravel in his throat.

“Hello,” she replies, continuing to finger at his t-shirt.

“How long’ve you been up?”

She attempts a shrug, “About an hour.”

“I could say you should’ve woken me, but we both know that wouldn’t have worked.”

He feels her laugh, “It’s no matter, I wanted to just… feel this. By myself for a bit. Make sure-”

“That it’s still real?”

“Hmm,” she agrees, moving her hand from his collar to wind herself closer to his body. Her hold is tight across his chest like she doesn’t want to let him go, though he won’t be the one to force her to. He moves one of his hands to rest behind his head, and the other goes to her shoulder, his thumb rubbing up and down on the fabric of her sweater.

“And? Is it real?”

She sighs, “Even if it wasn’t, I don’t think I’d want to leave.”

“Well, uh, you can- you don’t have to.”

“Hmmm, that’s sweet. You have the others, I shouldn’t-”

“They can call me if they need me.”

She turns to look up at him, placing a kiss against his chin. He returns the gesture, placing his lips against her chin, then lower on her jaw, continuing down her neck with soft touches of his lips to her cold skin. He feels the chuckle rise in her throat, rising into an actual bout giggling when he tickles the space between her neck and collarbone, ending in a moan when he sucks at the skin.

(And oh, he has to be so careful. It is not just an effort to stop himself from piercing the skin, it is every last bit of humanity he has. He can smell the sweet sugar of her Vitae from across a room, the Beast within begging to get itself drunk on everything that she is.)

She holds his face against her, urging him on, breathy moans delighting his ears. When he pulls back to look, there is nothing left behind to show for his ministrations. So he continues, sucks and kisses and grabs at her thigh, pulling her closer against him. He rolls them over so he can hover above her, her fingernails digging into his skin as she brings him closer. His legs slots between hers, but he keeps the lower half of their bodies separate.

When he finally removes himself, she is still unmarred, still a pale canvas of parchment white skin. Her eyes are closed, the smile on her face blissful and free, her mussed hair falling in soft waves around her head.

He could stare at her for hours, perhaps even go blind, for she is the sun itself, and he has not seen such a thing in so very long.

| Can’t Let Go Yet |

The sound of his phone buzzing on the floor across the room makes him stop reading in the middle of his sentence and growl at the object offending him. She laughs at his reaction, the sound vibrating across his chest where’s she’s sprawled out. He’d been reading from a book that they both knew very well. She had urged him to read aloud, saying that she enjoyed the sound of his voice, though he’s sure she takes even more pleasure out of correcting his atrocious pronunciation when speaking Latin.

“Real life catches up,” she says as she sits up, extracting herself from him so he can get up too. He hands her the book so she can keep their place. He pads across the concrete floor in bare feet, which feels strangely intimate, especially considering everything else they’ve been doing. He opens his phone to see Victor’s name plastered on the screen, his multiple texts typed all in capitals with white squares interspersed throughout the messages.

“Fucking Victor,” he grumbles, going to sit next to her as he scans through the messages, his phone continuing to vibrate in his hand as Annabelle and Nelli chime in with their replies.

“What does he want?” she asks as she pages through their book.

“Meet-up at the new club to go over opening night.”

“Mmh.”

“I could fucking care less about opening night,” he says, leaning down to kiss her shoulder before laying his head on it.

She kisses the top of his head, “You should go.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I’ll be here when you come back.”

“That sounds nice,” he smiles.

“Then go.”

He dramatizes his annoyance, practically stomping across the room to find a pair of socks before pulling on his boots that had been thrown on opposite sides of the floor. He grabs the series of straps attached to the sheath that holds his knife, buckling it across his chest so that the hilt of the knife rests against the small of his back. He then grabs his bag, looking through it twice to make sure he has everything he needs.

The final thing he looks for is his hoodie, glancing across the floor for the bundle of dark fabric that he had thrown somewhere the previous night. Turning around, he looks back toward the bed, surprised to see it wrapped around her shoulders, suddenly wondering how she managed to find it and put it on without him looking. She's smirking playfully, still focused on the book, entirely too proud in her ability to keep him on his toes.

"I need that," he says, slowly stalking towards her.

"Oh?"

"Please?"

"Come get- ah!" His hand encloses around her wrist, quickly pulling her upwards. Her feet move to steady herself, but it's his arm around her hip that helps her to keep her balance. The hoodie is quite large on her, loose around the shoulders, the sleeves going a couple of inches past the tip of her fingers, the bottom brushing at the back of her knees. She's engulfed by it, comfortable and warm, and if he knew that the others wouldn't ask questions, he would let her keep it, let himself think of her like this, safe and content in his haven with his books to keep her company and his sweater to remind her of him. But the others are assholes, so intrusive questions are inevitable.

He brings his lips to the spot on her jaw just under her ear, just barely brushing them against her cold skin to hear her sigh, lifting up his hand to push his sweater off her shoulder. He follows his fingers with his lips, and she answers with sweet little sighs as he trails down the white cotton of her t-shirt. She dresses down around him, no more laced white dresses and dried flowers woven into her hair, just t-shirts and cashmere sweaters and white jeans. They look so strange standing next to each other, polar opposites in ivory and ebony. 

His lips press at the edge of her shirt against the skin of her upper arm and the rest of the sleeve falls off. He can’t help but wish that there was nothing under it, but he moves his mind quickly away from such ideas or else he won’t want to leave.

He still doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay even more when she pulls up his mouth to hers. He pulls away, but she keeps bringing him back in, “I. Have. To. Go.” He says in every space between their lips connecting, though he doesn’t try too hard to get away from her.

“Hmm-mm,” she moans unsympathetically in return.

He’s half an hour late. Victor is annoyed, Nelli intrigued, Annabelle nosy. He couldn’t care less.

His sweater smells like her: dried herbs and flowers, a hint of smoke, and the faintest whiff of iron.

| Distracting |

Despite what Annabelle wants think about what happens when Eva comes to his haven (and she is right about much of it, more than he would like to admit, but not _all_ ) they do spend a lot of time just being in each other’s presence, when they’re sitting on opposite sides of his living room, reading books on thaumaturgical theory and occult studies. She’s helping him learn Sumerian and has a knack for languages that he appreciates after self-translating for years.

She curls up on the armchair under a blanket, giving him space on the couch so that he can stretch out his legs. More often than not, they can spend an entire night in complete silence, going through books and writing down notes until the day-sleep begins to take them. Other nights she continues to help him with his pronunciation, trading words back and forth and he’s got it right. His Latin has certainly improved under her tutelage.

His book is propped up on his bent knees, and he’s propped up on a cushion against the arm of the couch. She’s stolen his sweater again, happily so, and she’s curled up next to his feet, occasionally reaching out a hand to scratch him on the knee. They’re going through an old tome, written in different Sumerian dialects. It’s a long process, he reads it aloud, and she corrects his pronunciation, and he attempts to translate, and she corrects that too. She doesn’t say it, but he knows that she enjoys knowing more than he does. They’re all too similar, in that way.

He’s reading through a phonetically difficult passage when he feels her lips against his knee, and he stutters halfway through it. Looking up over the pages of the book, he sees that she’s moved closer to him. She’s pulled the hood of his sweater over her head, and it dips past her eyes, the waves of her hair tumbling out of the dark fabric.

“Keep going,” she says after noticing that he had stopped.

He continues, starting strong but steadily becoming shakier as she presses another kiss to his shin, moving up and down across his leg. He can barely feel it past the thick fabric of his jeans, barely a feather’s touch, but it’s so much more. He stops again, and she pokes him to keep going.

He’s lucky that his body doesn’t react to this type of thing the way it used to. He can get through her prodding by stammering and fidgeting, but he doesn’t grow hard in his pants, doesn’t feel the need to pull her against him. He continues his reading, and she continues her ministrations on every piece of his body she has access to: his legs mostly, thighs and calves, even the top of his foot and the tips of his toes, she brushes against the hand that’s holding the book open, grabbing it so she can press a kiss to his palm. He diligently continues, becoming more and more distracted with each kiss.

She situates herself between his knees, forcing them further apart with her body, and finally, he gives up, all but chucking the book away to grab for her instead. He helps her up to straddle his abdomen, her hands balancing herself against his chest.

“You stopped,” she states, a wry smile on her face.

“You were distracting me,” he replies, twitching underneath her.

“Was it a good distraction?”

“The best,” he leans up to catch her lips but she pulls away, just out of his grasp. He groans his displeasure before falling back down to the pillow beneath his head, "Do you need something?"

"Hmm, just you," she replies, leaning down once more. She doesn't go for his lips, though, but everywhere else: his closed eyelids, the tip of his nose, his chin, earlobe, jaw. All the while her fingers play at the edge of his shirt, and he figures out what she's looking for, all but freezing under her.

"We're okay, Jasper. We're here. And we're safe," she whispers into his ear.

He can't find the words, "I want- I, uh- This is n- This is different."

"Not so different, it's still you and me."

“It’s not- I don-- I can’t actually do anything,” he explains, hoping that she will understand.

“We don’t have to do anything more. I just want to be closer to you,” she kisses his cheek, then burrows herself into his neck. Her hands at his t-shirt stop fidgeting.

(He wants too. He wants everything she'll give him, and then he wants to take more.)

After a moment's hesitation, he sits them up. He kisses her once, twice, then leans back and takes off his black t-shirt, throwing it onto the floor once he's done. He then sits still, waiting for her judgement.

The black veins that mark his grey skin grow even more prominent as they twist and wind down his body. Some are raised, others feel like they've been cut deep into his skin, and they all come to meet in a dark black scab above his heart.

Her hands wander, taking her time to form an opinion. It feels cruel, waiting for her rejection (She doesn't want you, at least not for _that_. You're an ugly piece of shit, you know that, you can only get around his world if you're _useful_. So how does She want to _use_ you?) and he has to remind himself that she wouldn't do that, not now. Her thumb traces over his nipple, and his muscles twitch under her hands, a low growl forming in his throat. There are other spots on his body that garner the same response, and it surprises him to know that that's all the same as it was before.

And suddenly it's too much. He can't just sit there and let her take without giving back.

"I want to be close to you, too," he rasps.

She doesn't even hesitate, just pulls back from him as if she were just waiting for the moment that he asked the question. His sweater goes flying across the room, quickly followed by a flash of white and they are pressed together once more, skin to skin. She grinds down on him, and while it doesn't feel like it should it certainly still feels _good_ and he groans, tipping his head back for her to attack his neck, sucking and nipping her way to his collarbone. His hands grip into her skin, creeping further up until they come to the clip of her bra. It takes him three tries, rusty as he is, but soon that’s gone too, and he leans back to look at her just as she did to him.

She has tattoos, he’s surprised to see. There’s a peace sign of interconnected roses at her hip bone, and cursive Cyrillic script running down her rib cage, and he can see just a hint of something else rounding around from her back. He runs his thumb across the peace sign, his eyes slowly leading to the valley between her breasts, marred by a heavy, white, gnarled scar. She doesn’t shy away from his gaze, trailing a hand up her stomach to trace along the mottled skin up her chest, “We all have our scars.”

He grabs her hand, bringing it to his lips, brushing a kiss against her knuckles, “You are the most beautiful thing in this world, to me,” he mumbles into her skin.

And God, how he means it.

| In The Moment |

The tattoo on her back is an elegant Sakura tree, it's trunk towering up her right side and its branches crossing her shoulders. Its pink flowers float down from the branches in swirls of wind, and he finds himself tracing them, his fingers light along her back. She twitches and sighs at his touch, but otherwise lets him explore her skin to his content.

He brings his hand around to her stomach, pulling her towards him so he can curl around her body. They are both so cold, lying together like this, and he wonders what it would be like to be warm again, to feel her beating heart. 

One of her hands sneak back to grasp the back of his head, and she offers her neck to him. He takes her invitation to bury his face into her skin, taking in her scent. His hand wanders up her stomach, stopping to trail the curve of her breast before taking it, feeling its shape and rubbing the nipple between his fingers.

“Someone’s confident,” she remarks with a gasp, her body shifting back against his.

“You bring out the best in me,” he says, sucking at the skin of her neck.

“I bring out _something_ ,” she teases, collapsing into laughter when he presses a messy kiss to the corner of her jaw, continuing until he can just barely reach her lips. She turns around the rest of the way, easily throwing her leg over his hip, bringing them front to front. He palms at her ass, grinding their hips together, bringing out a moan from her to match his. He goes back to her neck, quite happy to lose himself in her skin and scent for the rest of the night.

And he does lose himself. He loses himself in her hair and her touch and her soft moans and whispers of affection. He loses himself in the way they move against each other, the way she doesn’t shy away from him and the way she embraces him fully and unconditionally. He doesn’t think straight around her, finds it almost impossible, the feeling is so familiar. It’s so very human.

But he’s not human anymore.

And she makes him forget that too.

He barely even grazes her skin with his canines, but it’s enough to draw some of her Vitae. She gasps in the mixture of pleasure-pain, and the beautiful sweet taste of it touches just the tip of his tongue. It’s sweet, not like chocolate, or sugar, but especially ripe fruit, or the strawberry coulis on top of a good cheesecake. One sip is all it can take to send him into enough of a frenzy to feed, but he somehow jolts himself out of it, jumping back so that they separate. Eva sits up, her hand at her neck, the blood welling underneath her fingers.

“I-I-I’m--I’m---I didn’t mean,” he can barely get a word out, hands hovering around her, unsure if she wants him to help her or not.

Her free hand takes one of his, “It’s fine, Jasper. It… happens.”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, “I couldn’t- I didn’t remember- ah, fuck.”

She laughs, though it lacks humour, “We all forget, every so often.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, really. Are you?”

He doesn’t want to tell her how good she tastes, how his Beast is screaming at him to take more. She’s a Tremere, it says, that means there would be no danger of a Bond being formed. He could keep her locked here, it reminds him, she’d probably like it. He argues with it, tampers it down until it’s nothing more than a speck in his mind’s eye.

“I’m fine, I think,” he licks his lips.

“Good,” she rubs her thumb over his knuckles, “Do you think you can… I’m going to need you to close it.”

“Ah, right.”

He leans closer to her as she takes her hand away, putting his mouth against the open wound and licking it closed, tasting the last bit of her Vitae against his tongue. He forces himself to pull away.

His Beast remains vocal all throughout the night.

| Unbreakable |

They talk about sex exactly once, and even then it’s a hypothetical: something that they know _can_ happen between them, through means of certain types of blood sorcery, although they also know that it definitely _shouldn’t_.

But their world is falling down around them. The Camarilla is closing in, and anxiety is in the air, and some nights they need to make everything shrink until it’s only them in their own little world, safe and protected in his underground haven.

They’ve already gone too far when she finally asks, clothes strewn across the room, a puncture wound here and there from a stray canine. They’ve tasted each other’s Vitae, heady and intoxicating, and both of them are so easily addicted to the other.

“Jasper," she gasps between kisses, "Jasper, do you-" she starts saying before she moans.

He knows what she's about to ask, only because he was about to ask her anyway. He remembers what it felt like to be in love, the slight obsession that comes when another person fills your thoughts to the breaking point. He's almost sure that he's feeling it again, and if that's the Beast rather than his own conscious then he could care less. He feels happy again, he tells himself, isn't it good to feel happy? Annabelle would do it, he knows, she'd chase it without a care in the world, despite everything that surrounded her she would chase love and he would inevitably envy her for it.

He throws thought and logic out the window and gives in to her.

He barely gives her a nod before she suddenly turns warm under his touch. He puts his head against her chest and he can feel her heart beating, even though her skin remains as deathly pale as it ever was. She bites him first, tearing into the skin at his wrist before doing the same to hers. She puts the two wounds together, mixing their Vitae into one, all the while mumbling something in Latin that he's too blissed out to translate.

"Try now," she says when she completes the incantation.

He's done this before when he was still new to everything and it once felt comforting to feel alive again every so often. He wills his Vitae to move again, to beat his heart, to heat his flesh, and while previous attempts at doing this left him unsatisfied and lethargic, like coming down from a good high, this is very different.

He feels human again.

The first breath is always the worst, ripping through lungs that he doesn't have to use, and he has to cough his way through the feeling of choking on air. He feels dizzy for a second as the blood rushes to his head and other parts of his body. His vision blurs for a second, and he finds himself paralyzed until it returns, her face a beautiful sight.

“How does it feel?” she asks.

He answers by pushing her back down into the mattress, his naked body covering hers. He slots himself between her legs, placing his hands on either side of her head so that he can lean down and steal a kiss. There’s no pretense of constraint anymore, and she takes as much as he does, tongues battling and teeth clacking together. Every nerve is alight with the feeling of her skin touching his, warmth against warmth, the sweat forming between the two of them.

His cock swells in arousal for the first time in literal years.

He reaches down between them to touch her, surprised to find how wet she is. She moans when he thumbs at her clit, hiking her thigh higher on his hip to grant access to her entrance. He inserts his index and middle fingers, drawing them up against her inner walls and scissoring them. Her hips move to meet them, her hands going to his back to drag his body closer to hers. He feels her nails digging into his skin, urging him on. 

He backs away from her lips to watch her face. Her eyes are closed, her mouth slightly open as she gasps and moans, tiny puffs of breath hitting his lips. He could spend hours doing this, wringing each different reaction out of her before going down on his knees before her to discover more. He would give her anything she asked. 

Her nails dig in harder into his skin, and he works his thumb on her clit, getting her to her climax with one last small thrust of her hips and coaxing her through it. Her walls squeeze around his fingers, and her body twitches and shivers in tandem as she moans a long drawn out sigh, bringing him down to devour his lips, so their bodies press right against the other. He can feel the tip of his cock playing at her entrance, and he holds himself back, unable to break away from her.

_It would come with a price, she said, Doing this… we would be bonded, Jasper. You would be bonded. To me. I wouldn’t wish you to choose this without fully understanding the consequences._

Fuck the consequences.

Her hand snakes between them to grab his cock, and she lines him up at her entrance. He takes that as permission, and slowly pushes in, grabbing her hand to tangle her fingers with his, pushing it into the mattress beside her head. Their open wounds stick together once more, flowing and mixing as they become one. He doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated within her, pressing their foreheads together as they share the hot air between them, breathing deep and full.

“I never thought I’d feel this again,” he says between breaths.

“Me neither,” she replies, bringing him down to kiss her.

“Eva I-”

She interrupts him by kissing him again, “I know.”

He nods against, moving his hips back to thrust into her once more, slow and steady, and she moans in response, back arching beneath her.

He can feel the bond forming as they continue, bodies moving together to reach their desired goal. The emotion he described as love earlier grows deeper, forming into an unquenchable need to protect her, to fulfill her every desire that she bequeaths upon him. He forgets about his pleasure to focus on hers instead, to catalogue every single sound and touch and quiver so he can make her come again. Their thrusts against each other grow harder, they bite until their lips bruise and bleed, the wounds on their wrists mix with their sweat and begin to sting. He tries to repeat the words he had started earlier, but they get mixed up in every groan and lick and press of her lips against his.

He feels when she finally does come, continuing to thrust into her as her walls squeeze around him. She moans his name, drawn-out and filthy, bringing him down to her so she can clutch at his shoulders and ride out the waves of ecstasy wracking her body. She places her face into the space between his neck and shoulder, pressing soft kisses there before she sinks in her teeth and bites.

It’s the ecstasy of the Kiss after the initial spike of pain that pushes him over the edge. He comes with a final gasp that descends into a low growl as she continues to drink from him. He stops moving, submitting to her bite as he grows soft within her and she continues to drink.

He wonders if she feels it too, the same obsession, the same need to protect. She probably does. He hopes she does. He wouldn’t have done this if it wasn’t going to be reciprocal.

He rolls himself onto his side, bringing her with him so she isn't crushed beneath his body. He feels tired, muscles groaning a bit from the activity. It’s human, he realizes, it’s his body telling him that he’s alive.

She has bruises on her hip where his fingertips had dug in, and he has matching scratches on his back. Their wrists are still bleeding, their lips swollen from the violence of their kiss. These are hurts that won’t last, even though he wants them too.

They start by licking the wounds shut. First his neck, then her wrist, and then his wrist in return, continuing on to the rest of the ones they had left on each other earlier in the evening. He’ll need to get new sheets. When they’re done, their still warm, their hearts are still beating, but they know it won’t be for long. He gathers her in his arms, bringing her against him so that they can feel them beating together and share in each other’s warmth.

As the night goes on, they grow cold once more.

| Quick, Goodbye |

Leaving her is an exercise in futility.

It’s the issue of being bonded to one another. Everything in their blackened soul is telling them that they can’t hurt the other, can’t cause them pain, whether it be emotional or physical. Everything that he had felt two nights ago is now multiplied after the previous evening. She doesn’t want him to leave her side, and so he doesn’t want to leave hers, and it circles and circles until they’re back to square one, lying on his bed, entangled in each other’s arms.

“Fuck Victor,” she says.

“This has been in the works for weeks now, we both knew it was coming.”

“That was before, now-”

“Everything’s different. But I still have to go.”

“Hmph.”

“I’ll go, you’ll be here, and I’ll come back, perfectly fine.”

“I don’t like it.”

“It’s a club opening, no one’s gonna try anything with that many mortals around,” he says, reassuring her as well as himself.

“Hmph.”

He kisses her before standing up, picking up his hoodie from the floor, “I’ll be smart. I promise.”

“I _command_ that you do,” she sits up, sitting at the edge of the bed.

He goes back, grasping her face and leans down to press one final kiss to her lips, “Your wish is my command, my love.”

She smiles, and that’s enough.

He’ll be back before dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> Love these two, and the #vamily. Don't forget to comment + kudo if you like this too, or give me a shout on my [tumblr](https://cordsycords.tumblr.com) if you wanna talk about vampires.


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